


The Truth and All Its Consequences

by UnCon



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, Hallucinations, Hannibal is a surprisingly gentle lover, Jealousy, M/M, Will/Stag-man is a thing, a three-shot, but it's background - Freeform, but stag-man is Hannibal, even in stag-form, mentions of cannibalism, so it really is just dream will/hannibal, so it's okay, takes place sometime after Will is released from the mental institute, though there is some mild dubious consent in chapter 2, vivid dreams
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-15
Updated: 2020-07-17
Packaged: 2021-03-04 17:35:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,152
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25280221
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/UnCon/pseuds/UnCon
Summary: “Will,” Hannibal’s voice alarmed him, it rang deep within his ear, reaching further than it had any right doing. “Will, is everything alright?”Dr. Lecter seemed worried, Will should answer, he should reassure him that everything was fine, that this call was a mistake. But something primal in him wanted Hannibal to worry, to care for him, quiet the fears that had gripped him since he’d woken.“I—” Will’s throat was dry, spent from breathing so hard. He forced his jaw open again, to work against resistance. “I need you here...please,” Will confessed, hanging up before he got a reply.
Relationships: Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter
Comments: 10
Kudos: 145





	1. Death

**Author's Note:**

> Awful summary, I know, but it's what gets the ball rolling. 
> 
> Hello! This is my first entry to the Hannibal fandom and boy am I excited for this three-shot. It's really simple, more of a psychological introspection of sleeping with the devil incarnate than any actual drama, so don't take it too seriously!
> 
> Please let me know what you think. This isn't beta'd, but I did the best I could with editing it. Please enjoy, and let me know what you think!

_Warmth..._

_...Darkness._

_I’m Safe—_

There was an unfortunate sound of a knife meeting the furry flesh of a stomach. The doe screamed, her cry haunting and human-like. The squelch of blood and viscera as it evacuated the unnatural hole was enough to turn the stomachs of the dead. There was a tug, a pull, the sounds of a struggle as whoever or _whatever_ defied God and forced the womb through. The doe’s screams grew fainter, stained with fatigue and grief as she bled out. With an expert hand, the womb was excised, creating a window large enough to peer through.

Fingers protruded through the hole—black in the moonlight—wriggling like worms trying to escape a bird’s beak. More fingers appeared, pulling at the flesh of the womb, ripping. This birth was a mockery to the natural order, as a man with stag horns emerged, sullied with blood, and shivering in the frost.

He attempted to open his eyes, but they were stuck shut. Naked, scared, and hopeless, he whimpered—a motherless babe forced into this cruel, cold world. His throat grew raw as he yelled for help, the only word he knew.

A voice, quiet like death, comforted him, shushed him as its hands—hard like steel—held him. They wiped his eyes, clearing his vision. They guided him out of the remnants of his womb, the doe dead and still in the plush snow.

The stag man looked to the moon and screamed.

* * *

Will woke with sweat dripping down his eyes. He couldn’t breathe, at least not at first, as panic swelled in his throat and the urge to flee arrested his limbs to the bed. His vision didn’t clear until he blinked the tears from his eyes, and even then, it was dark, the light of the full moon casting awful shadows across his room.

After a moment of clutching his chest, he managed to catch his breath, the familiar thumping in his skull worrisome as it ached behind his eyes. He wiped the worst of the sweat from his forehead, running his fingers through his scalp, feeling the acute absence of horns.

Will removed himself from his soiled sheets, disgusted with them. He changed out of his shirt and undid the covers, not bothering to replace them. Making his way to the bathroom, he did so in the dark, not wanting to disturb the sleeping canines.

Flipping on the lights, he let his eyes adjust before he opened them, jumping at the image that flickered in the mirror. He brought his bloodied hand to his face, trembling and speechless. He looked at himself again, his eyes wide and frightened at the horrific sight. He startled at the wailing of a distant deer, far too close for comfort.

Will shut off the lights and, in his haste, tripped as he returned to bed. He crawled on the floor, hyperventilating as he noted the bloody handprints he left behind.

He reached for his phone, swiping through his contacts, marring the screen red, the trembling in his fingers turning into a violent shake as he pressed the call button. Will held his breath listening to the dial tone, never once asking himself what time it was, or if he should even rely on this person to answer.

It was on the third ring when most people would give up, that he heard the tell-tale click of the receiver and Will could let go of his breath. He waited for a greeting, for a sign someone was there, that they could hear him.

“Will,” Hannibal’s voice alarmed him, it rang deep within his ear, reaching further than it had any right doing. It calmed the worst of his anxiety and smoothed out his twisted nerves. Will closed his eyes and breathed deeply, wanting to speak but finding no voice with which to do so. “Will, is everything alright?”

Dr. Lecter seemed worried, Will should answer, he should reassure him that everything was fine, that this call was a mistake. But something primal in him wanted Hannibal to worry, to care for him, quiet the fears that had gripped him since he’d woken. He shuddered, even thinking about the blood on his hands had him rattled again. He needed someone to tell him it wasn’t real, to remind him it was all in his head.

“I—” Will’s throat was dry, spent from breathing so hard. He forced his jaw open again, to work against resistance. “I need you here... _please_ ,” Will confessed, hanging up before he got a reply, letting his head fall against the mattress, too full and pained to think properly.

* * *

Hannibal regarded his phone like a man did abstract art. He wanted to drop it, to be rid of it, but decades of manners and hard-learned habits compelled him to place it on the counter alongside the dirty knife. It was early, the perfect hour to cut, quarter, and store his latest meal. He’d been slicing the last of a young man’s thigh, dipping it in the marinade and refrigerating it for tomorrow’s lunch when he received Will’s call.

Had it been anyone else, Hannibal would’ve ignored it. He nearly did, partly because of the time, and the circumstances. But Will’s name had jumped into his line of sight, seizing his actions. Will seldom called, and though they’ve grown friendlier since his incarceration, Will seemed to avoid any extra effort to get closer. This was piquing Dr. Lecter’s interest, so much so he couldn’t ignore his siren’s song.

So, he answered, a whirlwind of emotion passing through him as he heard the elevated rate at which the younger man breathed, how his voice seemed torn and strained as he tried to speak, tried to answer Hannibal’s simple yes or no question. Everything about this situation was so unique, the psychiatrist feared it might be a dream.

Hannibal rushed to pack away the rest of the meat, disregarding the sub-par quality of the cuts, how his house would smell of bleach for the next few days as he spilt it over the counters and floors to mask the worst of his work. Will had opened Pandora’s box with his request, had unearthed a secret Dr. Lecter was keeping for himself, and if this was a dream, Hannibal wanted to see it through to the end.

He thanked the empty streets and clear night as he sped through the highway, still cursing the distance he had to travel to reach Will’s home. If it weren’t so compromising, he’d ask the younger man to move closer. Thought it’d be a hard sell, Hannibal figured Will enjoyed his solitude.

Dr. Lecter exited his vehicle and did _not_ hurry through the small path and up the rickety steps, knocking on the peeling paint of the wooden door. When there was no reply, he tried the handle, surprised—and worried—when it gave way. He walked through the house—his footsteps dulled by the rug. Will’s dogs woke and rushed to sniff him, making sure he wasn’t a threat. Hannibal wondered what they could smell, what secrets they’d reveal if they could talk.

He disregarded such thoughts when he found Will. The smaller man was curled into a fetal position against the foot of his bed, his body drenched in sweat, looking as vulnerable as he’d sounded. It cracked something in Hannibal’s heart.

Dr. Lecter took a moment to look around, noting that a healthy dose of paranoia never hurt anyone before he stepped closer. With no threat found—perceived or otherwise—he knelt beside the shivering man, putting two fingers to Will’s jugular, and counting the rate of his heartbeat.

One-hundred and twenty-seven.

Hannibal hummed, pushing a hand to the man’s forehead then cheeks. He was normothermic, despite the sweat. Inhaling Will’s scent didn’t reveal any new flavours, just the musky odour he’d grown accustomed to associate with the man.

“Will,” Hannibal called, hoping he didn’t have to do much more to rouse him. There was a grumble, a protest of sorts, as the younger man pulled himself from sleep’s grasp. “Do you remember why you called?” Hannibal asked with a hushed tone, brushing away the sticky locks from the brunet’s forehead, threading them behind Will’s ear, letting his hand linger.

Will startled awake, panic forcing his heart to beat faster and his limbs to push him away from the dark figure hovering next to him. He met the resistance of his nightstand with a hard thud, his breaths coming in small gasps as the fear of death clutched him.

“Have you been sleepwalking again?” Hannibal asked, rooting himself to the spot as to not further spook the frightened man.

Will looked at his hands, how they now dripped with blood, landing on his thighs with a dull thud. He met Hannibal’s steady gaze, found a lifeline in his presence, in the calm he exuded. It forced him to take a deep breath, to clear his mind and answer. Had he been sleepwalking? It would explain the blood on his hands, the frost in his limbs, his nightmares.

“I don’t know,” Will answered, figuring the truth was better than trying to remember something over which he had no control. “I’m sorry, Dr. Lecter, I didn’t mean to call you if I did,” Will apologized, his throat itchy with emotion. He was still unsure what was up or down, his world in limbo as he waited for it to correct itself.

“It’s never a bother when you call, Will,” Hannibal rushed to reassure, ignoring the slight sting at being addressed by his title than by his name. You’d think after all they’d been through—they were at least on a first-name basis. Pushing aside the worst of his chagrin, Hannibal moved closer, holding out a hand for Will to take.

The man hesitated, balling his hands to fists, and pressing them against his chest. He seemed to take an acute interest in them, looking at them with disgust. “I’m sorry, I just...I don’t want to dirty your hands,” Will said, standing on his own. Apart from the tremors running through them, there was nothing superficially wrong. Hannibal let his own drop, restraining a sigh within his chest as he returned to his full height.

The dogs parted for Will as he walked to his bathroom, Hannibal following more out of habit than conscious choice. He watched the empath take a bar of soap and scrub hard at his hands, his knuckles, beneath his nails. Everything. He wasn’t satisfied until they were bruised red and raw. And yet, he kept scrubbing.

“Why won’t—” Will choked on his words, his anxiety resurfacing, worsened by the audience of Dr. Lecter’s eyes. He didn’t dare look at him, didn’t want to see the disappointment of a man who’d given up on a lost cause. “ _Please_ , why won’t you come off?” he supplicated with his hands, watching as more blood fell from them.

Will jumped when he felt Hannibal’s hand on his shoulder, the other taking the soap from his grip. He said nothing, gentle as he lathered the soap between his fingers, cradling Will’s abused hands in his own and washing off the imaginary blood. He didn’t judge Will, didn’t make a mention of his hallucinations, just helped him through the worst of it.

Will could’ve wept, the relief in his chest almost overwhelming as the blood finally disappeared down the drain. Hannibal didn’t let him go until his shoulders had relaxed, and his breaths had calmed. “Better?” he asked, his voice close, forcing a hard shiver down Will’s spine. He couldn’t reply, hating how he looked in the mirror, drenched in sweat and flushed red, aggravated now by Hannibal’s proximity.

So, he nodded, pulling away to find a towel to dry his hands. He handed one to Hannibal, avoiding his gaze as they stood in his cramped bathroom.

“Have you been feeling unwell, Will?” Hannibal asked, conscious of their surroundings and adjusting his voice accordingly. He watched the sweaty empath twitch at the question, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed.

“If you’re asking if I have encephalitis again, I think you’d know that better than me,” Will grumbled, feeling the betrayal of that time trickle in. How he’d managed to forgive Hannibal for that was still a mystery to him, he was well within his right to resent the man forever if he pleased.

Hannibal said nothing as he continued to observe his companion. There was something raw about Will that’d he’d yet to uncover, he’d noted it the moment they’d met and had chased the chance to see it ever since. He wasn’t a man of impulse, but the hand he placed over Will’s forehead was purely self-gratifying—he’d needed to touch him again.

“You feel normal,” Hannibal said, knowing the truth was far from being that simple.

“Thank you, Doctor,” Will chewed out, pulling away from Hannibal’s touch. It dawned on him that he was still trapped in his bathroom, the psychiatrist blocking the only exit. “I’m sorry you drove all this way for nothing,” Will said, not so subtle about the way he motioned towards the door.

Hannibal looked amused, stepping aside to let Will exit the confines of his bathroom, a smirk playing on his lips as he watched the man struggle to return to familiar territory, messing with the towels on his bed and giving up.

“It wasn’t for nothing, Will,” Hannibal said after a moment, stooping low to pet Winston, “you needed my help.”

The empath worried his bottom lip between his teeth, unsure what to say. Had he sounded that desperate on the phone? He couldn’t remember dialling the number, much less asking for help. He felt stupid now, embarrassment making his face hot.

“You should’ve ignored me,” Will mumbled, in need of a shower as sweat rolled down his back and pooled around his neck, clinging to his hair like needy children.

“Consider me like one of your dogs, Will,” Hannibal said, sincerity colouring his tone, “I’ll always come when you call.”

Will stood like a statue, shocked that the respectable Dr. Lecter would compare himself not only to a _dog_ but his dogs. He made it personal, like many other things that’d joined them the last few months.

Will didn’t say good-bye, nor did he follow Hannibal to the front of his home to watch him drive away. He did notice how his hands felt wet again, and when he brought them to eye level, they glistened black in the moonlight.


	2. Birth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the positive reception of this! I just looked back and this was in the works since December, it took a while to write because I'd nearly given up on it. 
> 
> Thank you for reading, and please let me know what you think!

There was a sharp burn that drove through Will like a glowing hot poker. The pain had him screwing his eyes shut, soft groans escaping his bruised lips. Sounds of wet skin colliding echoed in the woods, the snow doing nothing to dampen the obscenity. Will bit his cheek, tasting copper.

His breath shuddered as the burn began to dull to a throb, the rhythmic nature of their dance lending itself to some relief. Will felt a hand reach for his throat, squeeze it with such tender pressure that it had him gasping. He felt his shoulders rub against the ground, the cool grass tickling his bloodied skin, the snow melting around them.

Will kept his eyes shut, not wanting to look at the beast that’d mounted him, afraid of what he’d find—who he’d see.

Sweat collected at the base of his scalp, running down his face in bloody streaks. The hand at his throat squeezed again, forcing his eyes to flare open, panicked. Will’s vision blurred at first, the moon shining opposite them, illuminating the beast from behind, his black mass terrifying and all-encompassing. His horns seemed to grow into the night sky, bleeding into his own head.

Will fought for air, scratching at the stag-man’s hand, kicking his legs to try and escape his grip. His efforts were entirely for nothing, as the beast used his free hand to wrap around one of Will’s bare thighs, shoving it against his chest and deepening his stroke.

With the air still in his lungs, Will cried out, sounding more like a wounded animal than a man. For a moment, the stag-man paused, rearing back, his eyes closing as the moonlight brought his face into sharp relief.

Will stopped resisting then, the burn in his lungs dissipated, his body relaxing, accommodating the larger man above. He sighed under the attention, moving against his renewed thrusts, soft moans left Will’s lips, his body melting, blood pumping faster in his veins.

He cried out, shocked by his own nature, by the noises that rang in his ears like crooked recordings. Will couldn’t speak, didn’t have the capacity to. He was caught in a loop of desire and fear, clinging to the monster above him while his common sense told him to run away.

Will—the real Will—woke with a start, his bed a swamp made of his own sweat and tears. His heart was a bird trapped in its cage, trying to escape. He couldn’t catch his breath, and for the life of him, couldn’t see what was ahead of him. He figured it was the dead of night again, that his dreams—or his nightmares—had grown too much to bear.

He wiped a hand down his face, disgusted by the puddle of sweat he collected in his palm. Will forced his legs to the side, letting them land on the rug. He held his head in his hands, his fingers digging into his hair as his lungs stung with each inhale. He could still feel the ache in his back, the phantom pain of something that didn’t belong. Will wouldn’t mention the mess in his boxers in fear of acknowledging the dream, or more importantly, who’d been in it.

* * *

“Will.”

“Doctor Lecter,” the agent replied, his tone curt and shoulders tense as he watched Alana Bloom’s fingers linger on the psychiatrist’s cheek, her lips close to his ear as she whispered goodbye. His blood ran cold when Hannibal turned to face her, shifting his attention from Will. The murderous instinct that flashed through his mind was as familiar as his own name—he just wasn’t sure for whom it was intended.

“Drive safe, Alana,” Doctor Lecter said, his lips quirked to a pleasant smile, eyes on Will just long enough to gauge his reaction.

“Will do,” she replied, passing by Will and with a guarded expression said, “have a good session.”

“Will do,” Will returned, his throat tight, tracking her as she left, his eyes glued to the door many moments after her departure.

“You can’t set her on fire with just your mind, Will,” Hannibal warned, his tone lighthearted even as the glint in his eyes spoke of dark amusement and anticipation.

The empath jumped—his eyes wide like an alarmed child. He hated how Hannibal read him, how he knew his deepest intentions despite voicing none of them. It made him wonder, not for the first time, if Hannibal could read his mind.

“I didn’t want to mention this in front of Alana,” the doctor began, walking around the kitchen island, the delicate dessert he’d prepared for them juggled in one hand as he placed the other on Will’s shoulder, “but you look terrible.”

“Thank you, Doctor, you’re doing wonders for my self-esteem,” Will said, his smile more of a grimace as the warmth of Hannibal’s hand reminded him of things better left buried in his sheets. He made to pull away, but Hannibal held him steady, his eyes insistent on meeting Will’s.

“I wouldn’t mention it if I didn’t care about you.”

Will swallowed against the boulder in his throat, feeling paralyzed in Hannibal’s kitchen. He was reminded—against his own volition—of the monster in his nightmares, how it stared at him with the same maroon eyes, the same intense expression reserved for them.

Just for them.

“I couldn’t sleep,” Will revealed, breaking skin contact for sanity’s sake, “but what’s new, right?” Hannibal’s sigh was nearly inaudible, but Will was close enough he could hear it. It took him by surprise—he didn’t think the psychiatrist could get frustrated.

The doctor led them to the large dining table, gentle as he placed the plates in their respective spot, waiting for Will to sit before he followed suit. He scooped a spoonful of the dessert, bringing it to his lips and hesitating. Putting the spoon back down, he watched Will watch him, his eyes unfocused.

“You seem distracted, Will,” Doctor Lecter remarked, feeling the anxiety radiate from his table partner.

“I’m fine,” the empath grumbled, stabbing at his dessert, and shoving it in his mouth to keep from saying anything else.

Hannibal ignored the slight pang of annoyance at having his work of art massacred and continued watching the man, taking in the tremors of his fingers, his sleep-tousled hair, the way he looked like he’d implode if Hannibal pressed. And press he did, but lightly.

“You know it’s rude to lie, Will,” Hannibal said going for his glass of pre-poured wine, “I would’ve thought we evolved past that.”

“Have we, Doctor Lecter?” Will asked, his sarcasm spreading to his smile as he devoured he last of his dessert, “I do recall you lying about many things whilst calling me your friend,” he continued adding as an afterthought, “and I doubt you consider yourself rude.”

Hannibal didn’t react, amusement holding his indignance at bay. “I have my moments,” he admitted, because the empath had a point, even if it was a flawed one.

Will rubbed his temples, the pressure of keeping himself together backing up into his head, causing it to pound its displeasure. He tried taking a deep breath, but his body refused to relax, to calm down enough to let him resume normal human functions.

“Are you uncomfortable?” Hannibal, his tone neutral, “tell me, Will, have your nightmares gotten worse since your release?”

Will laughed, keeping the secret of the double entendre to himself. “You assume they’re nightmares,” he said, feeling a spark of mischief contrast with the natural gloom of his thoughts. Despite what said ‘dreams’ might mean, it felt good to have something of his own, something to keep from Hannibal, from his overanalyzing.

“Dreams then?” the psychiatrist tried.

Will shook his head, his smile forced and pained, morphing into a grimace the longer he pondered. It settled into a frown, his mirth all but evaporated.

“Something in between,” Hannibal concluded, drinking the last of his wine, leaving his dessert untouched as he stood, “if you’ll excuse me a moment.”

Will followed him with his eyes until he disappeared, letting go of a stale breath. He held his hands together to warm them, but they were past the point of frostbite, dirty with earth and grass, blood in between his nails like he’d taken them and dug deep enough to break skin. He closed his eyes, remembering a memory that didn’t exist, and following it to its inevitable conclusion. Will swallowed hard, pressing his head against the solid chest of the beast, holding onto him as he thrust harder, unrelenting, vigorous. Will couldn’t help reciprocating, moving against the beast with his own insistence.

“Will—”

The man in question startled awake at his name, his fingers bunched in the psychiatrist’s tablecloth, his face pressed cheek first against the cold plate. Will was hyperventilating, realization a cruel mistress as it stripped him of his voice and coloured his cheeks purple.

Hannibal stood still, the bottle of wine he’d been holding wobbling as he was rendered speechless—Will was starting to master the art without realizing it.

The empath pulled himself away from the table, taking the plate with him. He unstuck it from his face, unsure where to go from here. What could he say to rectify the situation? He couldn’t defend himself—every explanation would reveal his most intimate of problems, and at this point, he’d like to keep those to himself.

So, he said nothing, standing with his back stiff and leaving with the decency of having his tail tucked between his legs.

Hannibal would’ve stopped him if he had the mental faculties to move, to his dismay, all he could bring himself to do was flick his eyes to where Will slammed his door, feeling his body restart at the startling sound. In an instant he lowered the wine bottle, taking a much-needed breath where the empath had been sitting. Apart from his awful aftershave, there was a hint of sweaty desperation. Hannibal wasn’t a stranger to the scent—it was often the last thing he noted on his victims before they became his meal.

But this was different.

He inhaled again, tasting Will’s fading scent. It was the same one he’d encountered when he’d answered the man’s call when he’d held his hands to rid them of imaginary demons. Hannibal looked up where said hands had gripped his tablecloth, pressing into the loosened ball, curling his fingers around it.

It didn’t take an empath to decipher what this could’ve been, and lucky for him, he’d seen enough of Will’s face to convert his theory into fact. Hannibal took a final deep breath, his lips curling upwards.

* * *

“Fuck,” Will cursed as he punched open his front door, “fuck, fuck, fuck,” he continued, his anxiety bleeding into his dogs, who ran around him to put out the fire.

“Fuck me,” he groaned and fell into his bed, looking at his ceiling with much disdain. If he had the energy to put a bullet through himself, he would—without hesitation.

The phone in his pocket vibrated against his thigh, kicking his nervousness into overdrive, nearly killing him. He fished it out of his jeans, making a face as the letters appeared upside down. He swallowed hard when he read the name, deciding it was best for his mental health _not_ to talk to his psychiatrist.

He let go of his breath when it stopped ringing just to jump when it rang again. He nearly ignored it a second time but figured if the doctor was that insistent, he really wanted to talk. To his relief—and unfortunate displeasure—it wasn’t Hannibal.

“Jack,” Will answered without preamble.

“Will, I hope I wasn’t interrupting anything,” the agent began out of habit more than consideration.

“What is it?” Will asked, to which Jack unloaded the details of their latest murder. Will let the monotony of his tone return him to the present, to the world outside his fucked-up dreamscape, and the beast that lay within it. “I’ll be there as soon as I can,” he replied, ending the call.


	3. Life

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's it! That's the end! 
> 
> Thank you so much for reading, and please be mindful there are a few NSFW moments in this! 
> 
> As always, all mistakes are mine, and I hope I did justice to these characters. 
> 
> Please let me know if you enjoyed it!

“You’ve been avoiding me,” Hannibal stated matter of fact. It’d been a week since he’d seen Will and it was only by Jack’s insistence that he was here at all. He managed to stick to Will long enough for them to be alone together, using the opportunity to his advantage.

“I have not,” Will denied, forcing himself to fight his instinct of running away when the doctor was near—it’d only prove his point.

“What did we say about lying, Will?” Hannibal returned, far too amused to sound offended. He could feel how the empath tensed under his clothes, saw it when his Adam’s apple bobbed with his swallow.

“I’ve been busy,” Will said, not quite sure why he was trying to defend himself.

“Yes, I’m sure Agent Crawford is working you like a proverbial dog,” Hannibal said, careful as he placed a gloved hand on Will’s shoulder, his fingers locking when he squeezed.

For a moment, it was just them. Will chanced a look at the fingers, his mouth going dry as he remembered what woke him that morning. His elbows still ached from where he’d found them pressed into his mattress, his knees still red from rubbing against the roughness of his towels. He swallowed, that black glove sharing the same space and colour of the beast. Oh, how it’d held Will in place as he bucked, how it dug its thumb into his muscle, massaging slow circles into his tense spine, how they’d made their way down to his waist, down to his hip, lower still to his—

“Will,” Jack said, disturbing their peace. The agent didn’t notice how Will drove daggers into his back, but nothing escaped Hannibal. The doctor wanted to capture that anger and grow it, fashion it into something beautiful. 

“I’d like to invite you to dinner tonight, Will,” Hannibal said only for them to hear, it gave him an excuse to get closer, to inhale that intoxicating scent of desperation, so uniquely Will’s that it dulled all other senses.

“Are we celebrating something?” Will asked, his voice clipped. He still hadn’t moved, paralyzed by a simple appendage.

Hannibal smiled, and like sharing a secret he whispered, “You tell me.” The doctor let his hand slide down Will’s arm, lingering by his uncovered fingers. The man twitched, bending his fingers into a fist as pinpricks drove through it, rendering it useless.

“What time?” the agent asked doing his best to sound disinterested. He hated the spike of his heartbeat, the thrill of being alone with Hannibal, hated how his soul crooned to get closer to the man, to the beast.

The doctor’s smile grew hungry, not denying the fact that Will affected him. Greatly. He hid it well from most people, but Will wasn’t most people. His exceptionality shone bright like a gem among rocks and like a magpie, Hannibal dived headfirst into the precipice to catch it.

* * *

Will braced himself against his steering wheel, staring at the doctor’s home from his car. He was a few minutes early, something like anticipatory dread had him sweating bullets in the most unpleasant of ways. He’d agreed to this out of his own accord and yet he couldn’t answer why. Maybe he’d forgotten to ask the correct question.

“Evening Will, a pleasure to see you, as always,” Hannibal greeted, closing the door behind them.

Will felt like he’d led himself to slaughter, an unsuspecting lamb entering the wolf’s den.

Or was it the devil’s?

Hannibal drew near, his fingers light as they reached for Will’s jacket. The empath held his breath, feeling the doctor’s warmth radiate down his back. His skin ached where it became uncovered, goosebumps erupting where Hannibal’s knuckles lingered on his arms. It’d been the same as before, at the crime scene, where time seemed to stop for them.

A knock on the door startled them both from the moment. It forced Will to open the eyes he didn’t realize were closed and look at Hannibal with a twisted sense of confusion. It brought him some relief to see Hannibal doing the same.

The psychiatrist had enough self-control not to sigh his disappointment, hanging Will’s jacket on the rack as he went to answer the door. Alana Bloom’s smile greeted him on the other side, instilling in him an acute hatred for her that he hoped he masked well.

“Alana,” he said, his tone curt, “what a surprise.”

“I know, I know, I should’ve called but—” she let herself inside, stopping mid-sentence when she saw Will. She did a double-take, her smile bordering on a questionable grimace. “Did I interrupt something?”

“No,” Will was quick to say, his face tight as his lips stretched at each side, the tell-tale signs of a clenched jaw evident on his muscles, “we were just having dinner, right Doctor Lecter?” He didn’t wait for a response as he made his way to the dining room, his nails digging semi-lunars into his palms.

“Dinner sounds nice,” Alana said, her smile infuriatingly bright. She too made her way to the dining room and Hannibal exercised great strength as he walked past her _not_ to twist her neck.

They sat in uncomfortable silence as they ate, Alana across from Will and Hannibal at the head of the table, his mouth buried in his wine as he tried to find a way to reconcile whatever semblance of atmosphere he’d been trying to create with Will.

Will kept to himself, taking large and angry bites of his food, feeling like a child who had to share their toys. Something about that made him smile, sure Hannibal would take offence in being compared to an inanimate object.

“I’m glad you guys are starting to hang out again,” Alana began looking between the men, “keeping friendly after everything that’s happened.” She went to place a hand over Hannibal’s, but the psychiatrist moved away before she succeeded, using it to take another bite of his food. Alana cleared her throat, smart enough to know she’d intruded on something personal. She wasn’t gonna’ pretend she hadn’t seen the candle-lit table set for two, Hannibal’s finest wine on display, soft classical music echoing in the distance.

If she were the jealous type, she’d assume this ‘dinner’ was originally a date.

Will was the first to finish his food, excusing himself with the grace of a cyclone. Alana watched Hannibal stand and gather their plates, his shoulders stiff as he retreated to the kitchen. She decided to finish her wine before she joined him, trying to work out the knots in his back.

He didn’t take kindly to her touching him, already on his last shred of patience for not only her rude interruption but her lack of spatial awareness. Whether it was intentional or not, her ‘comforting measures’ were doing nothing but worsening the situation. Hannibal removed himself from her touch, framing it as an excuse to wish Will a farewell.

The doctor caught him just before he touched the door handle, his face a turbulent mess of emotions. “Will,” Hannibal said, keeping him from leaving for the moment, “I must apologize, I didn’t know.”

“There’s nothing to apologize for, Doctor Lecter,” Will said, his smile wilted at the edges, “enjoy the rest of your evening with Doctor Bloom.” He left then, with the barest hint of force as he closed the door, mindful of his manners even in his ire.

Hannibal would’ve burnt the world to have Will return, but as it stood, he was holding nothing but a candle. He closed his eyes, feeling the pounding of his heart in his brain, and worked to rectify his distress. He smelled Alana approach before he heard her, his eyes opening to meet her.

“I would like to spend the night alone,” Hannibal said before she opened her mouth, “and I’d appreciate it if next time you’d call before inviting yourself to my home.”

“I’m...I’m sorry, Hannibal,” she said, feeling reprimanded.

The doctor waited until he was sure she was gone before he made for his car, wanting—no, _needing—_ to expend the energy he’d reserved for Will Graham.

* * *

“ _Ah,_ fuck,” growled the beastling, his beast reciprocating with a hum.

Will had taken the reins this time, using his pent-up emotion to delve deeper into the depravity that’d become his dreamscape. This time he’d sought out the stag-man, thankful there’d been no protests as he pushed himself into his embrace, biting his lips as they kissed. He needed to taste him, to inhale him, to have everything he had to offer. Will’s heart soared at the reciprocation—his eyes blurry as he revelled in the filth. He needed it more now than before, his body an autumn leaf hanging on to the branch in a hurricane.

Will cried his approval with each thrust of the beast’s hips, clawing into the stag-man’s shoulders as he met him half-way, his thighs burning as he tried to keep himself upright. He bent low to kiss the stag-man, always surprised to find he was willing to indulge the sweeter side of their coupling.

Will shuddered as the beast flipped them over, his thrusts hard but slow, drawing out of Will whines so obscene it’d make a whore blush. The empath reached for the stag-man, desperate and on the verge of coming undone.

The beast spoiled Will, fulfilling his fantasies without saying a word. Until now, that is, when he lowered his horned head and licked a bloody stripe from the edge of Will’s chin to the tip of his ear, using his pointed teeth to nip at the lobe.

“Say my name, Will,” he commanded, his voice dark like the night sky.

It’d been the first time he’d heard the beast speak, it startled him into wakefulness, his body on the edge, breaths coming in and out in rapid succession as he tried to clear his eyes. Will was painfully erect, feeling as if a stiff wind could finish the job. Everything about him ached like he’d been tensing every muscle at his disposal.

The hair at the back of his neck was standing at attention like he was being watched. This wasn’t how things were supposed to go, Will was supposed to wake up in an uncomfortable but fulfilled mess, and he’d pretend that the face in his dreams was nothing more than a stranger. It’d worked the last few times.

Will sighed, thinking of dead puppies as he walked towards his shower. It was a futile effort, still tasting the stag-man on his tongue, his careful devotion to his every pleasure made him yearn for the field, for the barely-fallen snow, the melted patches they’d made with their animalistic rutting, how he lost every semblance of sense as he climaxed, the beast’s name always on the tip of his tongue.

Will didn’t realize he’d finished showering until he was fully clothed and grabbing the handle to his front door. He snapped out of it, chastising himself for this awful dependence he’d developed on the doctor.

Rubbing a hand down his face, he felt the slickness of something thicker than sweat. He pulled his hand away, looking at it like it was foreign. Blood dripped from his fingertips, hitting the floor with extreme care. More blood began trickling from his scalp and Will was afraid to investigate, but his instincts won the battle and his fingers lost the war as they patted around his hair, meeting the resistance of something hard. It curved high above his head and spread into smaller branches.

“Say my name, Will,” the dark voice breathed into the empath’s ear, his warm breath sending shivers down his spine.

“Hannibal.”

* * *

Doctor Lecter stored the last of his plates, exiting his kitchen with a final once-over, turning off the lights when he was satisfied. Thunder rolled overhead preceded by lightning so blinding it’d illuminated his foyer. There was a knock on his door, interrupting his ascent. He looked at the time and wondered if it was easier to pretend he’d been asleep.

It happened again—this time louder.

Hannibal, not one to shy away from his curiosity, approached the door. Some intrinsic feeling recognized the shape on the other side, but his disbelief was far too great. There was no way Will Graham was willingly getting soaked on his front steps.

Apparently, where there was a will...

“May I come in?” the empath asked, not meeting the doctor’s eyes. He was soaked through and through, shivering like one of his wet dogs.

“Always,” Hannibal rushed, bringing the man into his home. Before he could so much as fetch a towel, Will had grabbed his arm, his head bent low. “Will?”

He’d probably come to regret this in the morning, but Will couldn’t help himself any more than he could his nature. He brought his cold lips to meet Hannibal’s more so breathing on him than kissing him. He was waiting for consent—believe it or not.

Hannibal had a second to reciprocate before his hesitation turned to rejection. He sunk into the kiss, keeping Will’s fragile head in place with a finger. The empath drew closer, soaking Hannibal’s suit. The doctor found that he didn’t mind, it gave him an excuse to get out of it.

They remained in that embrace for a while, with Will’s trembling hands clutching Hannibal’s suit-jacket and the rest of him coming alive at the thought that this wasn’t a dream anymore. He groaned into their kiss—his head filled with weeks of fantasies he wanted to make a reality in one night.

The empath’s fingers found their way to the buttons of Hannibal’s dress shirt, undoing them with an urgency reserved for emergencies. The doctor stilled his movements, his eagerness overshadowed by his pesky common sense. Despite the contrary, he did care for Will Graham’s health, and though previous management of his illness would label him a hypocrite, this time he needed to verify this was Will—not some half-awake and febrile stranger.

“How long have you been standing in the rain Will?” Hannibal asked, pressing a hand to the man’s forehead. At least he hadn’t spiked a temperature.

“Is that really what you’re asking right now?” Will asked on the verge of accusatory. He almost missed the silence of his beast, the way in which he’d demand nothing more than Will’s compliance.

Hannibal had to agree that it wasn’t an essential question in the grand scheme of things, but he’d asked it for a reason. He needed to know how long Will was warring with himself before he decided to knock. They hadn’t spoken since their aborted dinner and Hannibal had been preparing for the long winter ahead.

“Unfortunately, it is,” he answered.

Will looked distraught, his face shattered into a mess of emotions. He shook his head, trying to keep the tears at bay. “I don’t...I don’t know, I just, I needed you, and I just, I’ve needed you for so long now that I just couldn’t deal with it anymore. I know what you are but I—” Will stopped talking, looked the doctor straight in the eye and said with the finality of a damned man, “I need you, Hannibal.” 

Will wasn’t the only man damned that night. Something broke between them and whether tomorrow brought them joy or sorrow didn’t matter for tonight.

Hannibal resumed their kiss, hoisting Will into his arms. The stairs creaked as he carried him to his bedroom, placing tender kissess along his neck as he lowered him to the bed. He crawled in after him, skillfully removing his wet clothes and kissing every expanse of skin revealed from his efforts.

Will’s body was on fire, sensitive and overstimulated. He tried not to compare this to his dreams, but he couldn’t help noticing the similarities, the careful attention of Hannibal’s touches, the gentle way in which he nipped his skin, far kinder than you’d expect. Will sighed, relieved when he was stripped of his cold clothes, fully warming up to Hannibal’s presence. As for the doctor, he had to take a moment to just look at Will, at all his scars, his imperfections, his beauty, and everything in between. He might have taken longer than deemed appropriate because the empath began to close himself, embarrassed.

“Don’t,” Hannibal warned with gravel in his mouth. He was quick to rid himself of his clothes, and focus his renewed attention to their combined happiness. He held Will’s gaze as he kissed a trail to his hardness, licking his lips before he indulged.

“Ah, _fuck_ ,” Will groaned, giving a full-body shudder. He’d yet to find something Hannibal didn’t excel at, it made him feel inadequate, too human.

“Really, Will,” Hannibal, began a self-satisfied smirk igniting a flame in his eyes, “I never took you for a submissive,” he continued, stroking the empath to his full length.

“It’s been a while since I’ve been in this position,” Will admitted, surprised he could even form a sentence, “I’d rather not embarrass myself.”

“Another time then,” Hannibal promised, kissing a return trail to Will’s lips. The man was far too preoccupied to realize what Hannibal had meant, using all his remaining mental faculties to stay in the moment, to enjoy the weight on his body, to drown in the scent of sweat and rain and blood.

“Turn,” Hannibal urged, pulling Will’s hips into the air, and bending his back so he was resting on his elbows. He grabbed each side of Will’s ass, massaging it in his hands, shuddering each time the empath’s breath hitched. Hannibal took his thumb and brushed it along Will’s entrance, enchanted in the way it responded to him.

“You’re not a stranger to intrusions, are you Will?” Hannibal teased, pressing a bit to see how far it would go.

“ _Hng_ ,” Will whimpered, sucking air through his teeth, “I didn’t think you were one to play with your food, Doctor Lecter,” bit back, far too bold for someone in such a vulnerable position.

Hannibal’s eyes sparked with something sinister, something he’d reveal to Will once they’ve crossed this bridge. If his eidetic memory didn’t deceive him, the man may have already figured it out.

Without further preamble, Hannibal lowered his tongue to the puckered hole, spreading it wider with his thumbs, drowning in a cavalcade of tastes and scents. It was decadent and he celebrated said decadence, hoping Will wasn’t averse to joining him. Judging by the noises he was making—he probably wouldn’t have a problem with it.

“ _H-Hanni-bal,_ ” Will gasped, grinding against that persistent tongue, whining when Hannibal introduced his fingers. Christ, this was better than any dream imaginable. He wanted more but was fine if death found him fit to pass. His fingers cramped as he tried to keep still, balled hard into the doctor’s sheets, his throat grew raw with each ragged breath, and his thighs began to burn with the effort to keep himself upright, but he wasn’t moving for a goddamn thing.

Hannibal nearly lost himself in his task, forgetting there was more to this than preparation. He left the space between Will’s cheeks, giving it a final lick before turning him around. Will was flushed, his eyes unfocused and brimming with tears. Hannibal wanted to capture that image for posterity, return to it if they ever had to part. He had to make do with the memory of it.

Will spread his legs wide to accommodate Hannibal, nearly impaling himself in his haste. The psychiatrist shook his head, glad he had such an active bed partner. He used some of his pre-come as lubricant, holding them both steady as he aligned himself.

“Relax,” he encouraged, noticing how Will began to tense, undoing all his hard work.

Will nodded, bracing himself for the sting. It began, ardent like a sunburn. He hissed but didn’t stop it, screwing his eyes shut through the worst of it. He almost missed how Hannibal began stroking him, keeping him erect to distract him. It worked well enough, and now he had the entirety of Hannibal buried inside of him, stretching him...claiming him.

“Have you thought about this often, Will?” Hannibal asked, gentle as he thrust in increments, getting Will accustomed to his size.

The empath nodded, too embarrassed to speak, to open his eyes.

“That night, when you called me, that was the beginning of your dreams, wasn’t it?” he asked, finding it hard to keep a conversation and remain composed as Will squeezed around him.

Will nodded again, forcing himself to look at Hannibal, to watch as their bodies moved in tandem, slotted together like they’d been carved from the same stone. It made his insides crumble with conflicting emotions, he’d needed this, but it may not have been the best for him.

But the truth—and all its consequences—was never an easy pill to swallow.

Hannibal picked up speed, framing Will’s head between his arms. They kissed, Will’s thigh’s coming up to hug Hannibal’s hips, urging him to go deeper, to thrust harder. When the doctor complied, Will nearly lost his composure, choking on a sob as he ran his nails down the expanse of Hannibal’s back. They’d leave large red streaks and Hannibal would revel in the sting when he showered tomorrow, but for now, it only worked to kick him into overdrive.

“ _Agh!_ ” Will cried, burying his teeth in the doctor’s shoulder as he came, drawing blood. The sight of red was enough to push Hannibal into his own climax, groaning Will’s name into his ear like a prayer.

Hannibal pulled out with a wet plop, kissing Will into breathlessness. He grew too exhausted to sustain his own weight, rolling over on his back to regain his strength. Not much later he heard the soft rumble of Will’s snores, his partner effectively pleased.

Hannibal had never seen the man so at peace before, the lines on his face all but disappeared, that constant frown he carried erased. He traced his eyebrows, the curve of his nose, his lips—still swollen from their kiss—his chin, to his neck where his pulse had settled.

The doctor sighed, unsure what tomorrow would bring, or if Will would even be there when he woke. But for once, he didn’t mind falling asleep uncertain.


End file.
